


His Fault

by jaythewriter



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Gen, Set a little bit before the events Tim shows us in Entry 82, jay isn't the brightest crayon in the box but he's the kindest and most determined
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:09:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaythewriter/pseuds/jaythewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jay visits Rosswood Park, hoping to retrace Jessica and Alex's steps. He doesn't get very far during his first attempt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Fault

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for references to throwing up, blood, and a mention of blades.

You’ve been sick for days, and you haven’t been getting better.

(You’re always sick now. But this, this isn’t like the coughs you could ignore or the sleepy days where you could park on the side of the road and curl up in the backseat. It’s like comparing a cold to cancer.)

That doesn’t stop you from driving out to Rosswood, though. 

You already know what you’re hoping to do by the time you arrive there. 

A couple days before, the car rolled up into the empty parking lot, completely surrounded by the night and not much else. At that point, you had no idea what you were doing there. Maybe you were hoping that the park had vanished into thin air and that the tape was something you dreamt up, even though it was burning a hole in your pocket.

But that was then; you know what you’re going to do this time. You’re going to find the trail Jessica followed-- and you’re going to find her.

(Alive, you tell yourself.)

(She was-- is-- she’s strong. She’s alive.)

You’re prepared as you’re ever going to be. Camera is charged, phone is charged, a knife is in your pocket, and you’ve got your jacket on. It’s a bit cold out lately.

Maybe it’s just you that’s cold, you haven’t eaten in the last few days after all. A snack, here or there, but a candy bar doesn’t go very far.

You can’t eat though. You end up throwing it back up by the time you feel it settling, reminding you you’re alive, you’re the one that’s alive and she--

(So is she, now nut up and get moving.)

Opening the door, you let yourself out into the lot and pull up your hood against the wind. There are two cars on the other side of the lot, but otherwise you’re all alone. Maybe it’s for the best; less joggers around to question why you’re running around with a camera.

You could tell them you’re making a documentary on forests. 

The idea drags an unexpected giggle up from your chest. It’s ragged and tastes bittersweet, but you keep laughing and, goddammit, you can’t stop. You’re out on the grass, mud squishing under your feet, camera out and you’re nearly falling to your knees. It’s too much, turning such a small memory into a joke, a harsh joke that rings of your stupidity and her confusion.

“Are you alright, honey?”

At some point, the laughter turned to coughing. You couldn’t tell the difference, honestly. Both scrape your throat raw, numbing it to the blood trickling its way up. 

You look up. A woman (mom-- no) stands before you, bending over and resting her hands on her knees. A child who looks like her, dark in hair, skin, and eyes drifts behind her, nervous. 

You open your mouth, about to wave them off and say you tripped and fell. With any luck they’ll ignore the fact that you were apparently laughing about falling over. That’s all your excuses are really based on; come up with them on the fly and hope to hell they work.

But

but you squint through the dusk

and it’s there

ripping its surroundings apart and warping them 

colors blur together and the grass at its feet becomes one long pool of green

it’s staring

watching

as it always does

arms stretched at its sides and head bowed

observing and staring at the child

hungrily

how it can do so without a face, you don’t know.

But you’re getting up. You’re tearing away from the grass and yelling at the mother with a voice you don’t have the strength to use, but you do it anyway, reaching deep into some hidden reserve. You scream for her to get out of here, get lost before you try something she won’t like. She stumbles and clutches her child to her, scared.

She listens, of course, doing as all mothers should and getting her child away from the raving lunatic. You lay there on the ground until you hear their car roaring out of the parking lot. 

Only then do you look where the thing was.

It’s gone, all the grass back in place and trees undisturbed. 

It’s gone, and it knows that child’s scent now because of you. 

You pick up the camera and stare down at it. You’ve been tempted in the past to throw it and crush it and stomp on it, anything and everything, just so long as it’s destroyed.

This is the first time you’ve come close though, because you barely catch yourself in time and realize you have your arm slung back as though meaning to lug it at the nearest tree trunk.

Tucking the camera safely away in your jacket pocket, you turn and go back to the car.

You can’t do it today.

Jessica is going to have to wait a little longer for you.


End file.
